It's A Kind of Magic
by Moony12
Summary: AKA, The Crossover of DOOM. Adam Young's gone to Hogwarts. Aziraphale and Crowley pose as wizards to keep an eye on him. Harry et al make memorable cameos. Comic hijinks ensue.
1. About a Boy

_-About a Boy-_

It _was_ a dark and stormy night. The weather had finally got it right. 

Though the owl was none too pleased about it. There are few things more frustrating, for an owl, than attempting to fly over England through the rain at night. (Except for particularly agile mice, and ingrown pinfeathers.)

However, the owl persevered, because she had a message to deliver. Her destination had finally appeared, a pinpoint of light against the darkness of the ground below. Something, not instinct, but something else entirely deeper, told the owl that this house was where she was to go. This house, in Lower Tadfield, where an eleven year old boy lay on his bed, flipping through a comic book, unaware that his life was about to change.

_Again_.


	2. Crowley Hears From Hell

__

1. Crowley Hears From Hell

When the first message from Hell came through, Crowley was sitting at a traffic light, drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel and wondering if the old bird in the car beside him would notice if her feathered hat suddenly turned into the original owner of the feathers. A wicked grin slithered onto his face, and he twirled his trigger-finger, winding up.

It was a nice day, and "Seven Seas of Rhye" wafted from the Blaupunkt.

_...and I'll defy the laws of CROWLEY._

He sat up straight, gripped the wheel at ten and two. "Er, hi," he said, to the stereo. 

_CROWLEY, THERE IS A SITUATION._

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw the little old woman peering suspiciously into the Bentley. He reached for the volume and twisted it down. It didn't do any good; Hell had no concept of subtlety. 

_YOU ARE NEEDED, CROWLEY._

"Eh?" 

The woman's eyes were nearly falling out of her head. Crowley would have glared menacingly at her, were it not for Freddie Mercury's next sentence.

_IT INVOLVES THE BOY._

Crowley grimaced. "Oh, _bugger_," he groaned, bumping his forehead against the wheel. "What now?"

No sooner had he spoken, he knew. They dropped the details straight into his brain, and he knew everything they wanted him to know. He pulled a face and stared at the stereo as if he expected a giant tongue to stick out of the cassette deck, and blow a great big Satanic raspberry at him.

"Are you, er..." He paused, searching for a way to put it delicately. "...out of your tree?"

_THIS IS NOT A JOKE, CROWLEY. THIS IS YOUR ASSIGNMENT, AND YOU WILL CARRY IT OUT SUCCESSFULLY._

Crowley laughed, weakly. "Or else, right?"

_THERE IS NO OR ELSE._

"Of course." Crowley gulped.

_WE WILL BE IN TOUCH, CROWLEY, TO CHECK UP ON YOUR PROGRESS out the good leave out the bad evil cries..._

It was _typical_. Typical of Hell to let Crowley get comfortable again, after that near-miss of a few months ago, to let him think that perhaps he'd dropped below Hell's radar and they weren't going to bring up his role in the whole business after all. This was payback, he figured. Punishment. Somewhere down Below they were having a great laugh at his expense.

Crowley gunned the Bentley's motor. The little old woman in the car beside him sniffed disapprovingly.

When the light turned Crowley sped off, careened rather carelessly down the busy London street and narrowly missing a few pedestrians as he half-turned, and made an intricate hand-motion over his shoulder.

He drove toward Soho, leaving the sounds of screams and squawking in his wake. 


	3. Aziraphale Dusts

_2. Aziraphale Dusts. _

Aziraphale was positively _vexed_. 

He didn't often find himself vexed. At best he would be mildly befuddled, usually by the headlines of a newspaper he might have happened across, as he didn't often read them. Stories of what humans were getting up to on a daily basis did not interest him in the slightest, though he knew they should, as he was supposed to be a Principality and all and out there inspiring world leaders to behave themselves. 

He much preferred the crosswords. Not to mention the horoscopes, though he felt a touch guilty about that. 

However, on the occasions when Aziraphale found himself thoroughly and irrevocably vexed, he had a tried-and-true method of handling it. 

He cleaned. 

More specifically, he swept every patch of floor, polished every bit of silver, changed the covers on the chairs, reorganised the bookshelves, and even relocated a cadre of spiders, found bivouacking above the shop door, to the laundry next door (where it would be warmer for them, the poor things). 

Heaven hath _no_ fervour like an angel vexed. 

Aziraphale was in the midst of dusting the rubber plants when Crowley arrived, announced merrily by the little bell above the door. He looked up and acknowledged Crowley with a wave of his feather-duster, and promptly sneezed. As usual, he looked surprised afterward. 

"I fear I shall never get used to that," he said. "Though, it does feel nice. Rather tingly." 

Crowley grunted. He eyed the angel from head to toe. 

"You're _cleaning_," he said. 

"Very observant of you," murmured Aziraphale, getting back to his dusting. 

"You're all worked up about something, then." Crowley cocked his head to one side and studied Aziraphale's frilly pink apron with bemusement. "You only clean when you're _dithering_." 

Aziraphale sniffed. "What _are_ you on about?" he asked, stooping to brush the underside of a leave. Crowley reached over and plucked the duster out of his hands. "I beg your pardon." 

"Angel," said Crowley, "what do you know?" 

"Er." 

Crowley sighed. 

"You know, then," he said, and the feather duster went up in smoke. "You've been in contact with... them." His eyebrows touched his hairline. "Your people, Upstairs." 

Aziraphale sighed, and nodded. "I went to make myself a cup of tea this morning and found a circle opened in the kitchen. Singed the linoleum. I rather liked that pattern." He looked put out. 

"_Forget_ the bloody linoleum," said Crowley. "What did they tell you?" 

"About the boy?" asked Aziraphale. "Adam?" 

"Yes, angel." Crowley rubbed his temples. Innocents could be so maddening, sometimes. (Most of the time.) 

Aziraphale told him. 

"_Fuck_," cried Crowley, and he slumped down into a chair and thumped his head against the table. "They've gone mad. _All_ of them, Above and Below." 

"Well," Aziraphale said, a little uncomfortably. Crowley peered up at him over his sunglasses, pale yellow glow in the dim light of the shop. "I wouldn't say they're _mad_." 

"Of course _you_ wouldn't," muttered Crowley. 

The angel patted his shoulder, rather awkwardly. 

"It had to happen sometime, you know," said Aziraphale. "He's growing up. Moving on. Higher learning, and all that. Although, I would have thought he'd have been down for Eton, myself-" 

"Focus, angel." 

"Right. Sorry." 

"So, what did your people want with you?" 

"Oh, nothing really." Aziraphale coughed, delicately. "Just wanted me to, er, keep an eye on him. I expect they don't want him learning anything... unfortunate, you know, that could be taught to him at that, um, school." 

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. "Like, for example, how to be a proper Antichrist?" 

"That would be my guess." 

"That's what Hell wants me to do." Crowley glared at his open hand, and a bottle of whiskey materialised in it. "Watch over him, keep him from learning anything Good and Pure and Light, any of that mumbo-jumbo." 

He drank straight from the jar. 

"Just, no _bloody_ idea how to go about doing that," he added, miserably. "No clue at all." 

Aziraphale frowned. "Did they, uh, not tell you where he was going?" 

"Well, yes," said Crowley, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket and passing the bottle over to Aziraphale. "But where on _Earth_ is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" 


	4. Needle In the Haystack

_3. Needle In the Haystack._

The shop looked as if a small indoor hurricane had struck everything comprised of paper and glue. Crowley stood knee-deep in 12th century cookbooks, scowling at a copy of _Perfectinge Thy Porrydge_, while across the room Aziraphale muttered to himself and reverentially set aside an aged copy of Hobbes' _Leviathan_.

"I'm certain I've got it here somewhere," he said, swatting the air impatiently. To Crowley he said, "Be a dear, and look over in that corner there, by the window."

Crowley eyed the precarious tower of books. "What exactly are we looking for, angel?" 

"A book," replied Aziraphale, delicately picking through a stack of hymnals, 

"What book?" 

Aziraphale hummed. "We'll know it when we find it," he said, with a maddening little smile. "It's one I hope might give us an idea of what's going on." 

"I'll tell you what's going on," groused Crowley, picking up something titled _Great Ways To Gruel_ and frowning at it. "It's a bloody joke. It has to be." 

Aziraphale peered at him. 

"My dear boy," he said, "have you _ever_ known our people to be able to tell a joke?" 

"Er." Crowley scratched the back of his neck. "The platypus was rather funny, I thought." 

Aziraphale sniffed, and vanished behind another bookshelf. 

"Well, how the hell else do you explain it?" Crowley called after him. He moved toward the window and nearly tripped over a pile of hymnals. He resisted the urge to turn them all into Harlequin romances, and stepped around them. "I mean, I've never heard of this school before, and the boy's not a wizard for Chr- For Go- He's the bloody _Antichrist_! How the hell- hel_lo_." 

He stopped talking, and looked down at a book he'd picked up with the intent to hurl at something inanimate - or animate, if Aziraphale had chosen that moment to come out from behind the shelves. He was silent as he read the blurb on the back cover, eyes widening and starting to glow. 

Too silent. Aziraphale's head popped out from behind the shelves. 

"Crowley?" he asked, brow delicately furrowed. "Have you found-" 

He was cut off by a book being thrust roughly into his hands. On the cover was a picture of a boy in spectacles standing in front of a train. Aziraphale squinted. 

The train was labelled _The Hogwarts Express_. 

"Huh," said the angel. 

Crowley tapped the book with one finger. "It's a _children's_ book." 

Aziraphale sniffed. "I can see that," he said. "But-" 

"It's not a history book," Crowley went on, voice rising as he spoke. "It's not an encyclopaedia. It's not even a bloody travel guide to strange places with funny names-" 

"Crowley-" 

"It's a _bloody children's book_, Aziraphale, and that just proves what I said, before, about them all going absolutely nutters. The whole blessed, damned lot of them." 

He snorted. "Right," he said. "I can't cope with this on an empty stomach. I need lunch." 

"Well, you don't _need_-" 

"I _want_ lunch, angel." 

Aziraphale nodded. "Fair enough. I suppose I could do with a bite of something, myself." He held up the book. "I'll bring this along. Maybe it will make more sense over a nice _foie gras_." 


	5. Aha!

_4. Aha!_

They went to an extremely expensive restaurant, the kind of place that by all accounts should run credit checks on the patrons before seating them, though no one said a word to them until they'd sat down. A fresh-faced waitress turned up immediately, bearing a bottle of _Reisling Auslese_ and Aziraphale's _foie gras_, with lentils. 

The angel cooed over his plate. Crowley scowled into his glass. 

"Let's see that book, then," he said, once the wine had kicked in. Aziraphale obligingly reached into his coat pocket, but when his hand touched the contents he frowned. "What?" 

Aziraphale pulled out a book. It was larger, thicker and decidedly older than he remembered it. He turned it over in his hands. 

"This isn't the book I left the shop with," he said. He set it on the table. "I must have picked up a different one..." 

"But you never put it down," said Crowley, quietly. "You put it in your pocket. I saw you." 

"Then where'd _this_ come from?" Aziraphale asked, poking the cover of the book. He pushed it toward Crowley. "And where'd the other book go?" 

Crowley picked up the book and opened it, and yelped. 

"They're alive!" he cried, tossing the thing back to Aziraphale as if it were, indeed, alive and kicking. He pointed after it. "The pictures! They _move_." 

They did, indeed. Aziraphale stared at what looked like a photograph of children in brightly-coloured robes, flying about a football pitch on broomsticks. Every so often, one of them would stop and wave at him. 

"It's remarkable," breathed Aziraphale. 

"It's _magic_," croaked Crowley. "And that goes against everything we - you - stand for." 

Crowley didn't stand for much. If anything, he would occasionally recline, with disinterest. 

Aziraphale closed the book and looked at the cover. He held it up for Crowley to see. 

"_Hogwarts: A History_," he read. 

"There we have it, then," sighed the angel. 

Crowley shook his head. 

"How can that _be_, though?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that this... this magic business, with the witches and warlocks and whatnot, goes against HIS will. I mean, it doesn't bother me any, but how can a world with _you_ in it have a world with _this_ as well?" 

"Hmm," murmured Aziraphale. He stared at the book cover, tracing the little designs around the edges with a finger, seemingly lost in thought. Crowley took the opportunity and relieved him of the rest of his lunch. 

"You're right, of course," he said, after a moment. "This isn't _His_ will... however..." 

His eyes widened, and Crowley knew an epiphany when he saw one. 

"What?" he asked, through a mouthful of girolles mushrooms and quail's egg. "Wossit?" 

Aziraphale beamed like a star over a desert. "That's IT. It makes sense, it's not _His_ will, but it's HIS will... emphasis on the 'his,' you see..." 

Crowley swallowed. "_Whose_ will?" 

The angel looked triumphant. "Adam's," he said. "Adam Young." 

"I'm not following." 

"You said it yourself. It's a _children's_ novel," said Aziraphale, tapping the tome in front of him. "I don't remember buying any book like that, which means that more than likely it was put there, when Adam... you know." 

"Put the world back the way it was."

"Right, which means it was something he'd read, and... and what if he read it and he liked it? I mean, really, _really_ liked it." Aziraphale's eyes twinkled. "_Loved_ it, even? Enough to start _believing_ in it?"

Crowley stared. 

"Don't you see?" said Aziraphale. "The only way a world like this could exist along side our world is if Adam were the one who'd, you know, rearranged things so that it _could_. Because he _wanted_ it to." 

"You're saying that the boy _brought that book to life_?" asked Crowley, nearly choking on a lentil. "That's preposterous." 

"It's-" 

"If you say ineffable I'll stab you with my fork." 

"-no different than rain forests springing up where there weren't forests before," said Aziraphale, a little guiltily. "Or Atlantis turning up after all those years buried in ocean and legend. Or-" 

Crowley waved a hand. "Alright, alright. I get the idea." He looked at the book. "That doesn't explain the book, though. I know you left with that other one, so. Where'd this come from?" 

The angel blushed. 

"Might be my fault," he said. "Er, my bookshop, that is. Adam put everything back the way it'd been before - except for the children's books - and I expect he wouldn't change anything else because-" 

"-he knows you don't like change," finished Crowley, with a smirk. "And when the book left the shop-" 

"-it changed, because a fictional book about Hogwarts wouldn't fit into a world were Hogwarts were real." 

Crowley rubbed his head. "This is so ludicrous, it almost makes sense," he said, wearily. "Right, so. If all this is true, then what the hell are we supposed to do about it?" 

Aziraphale slumped a little. "I don't really know," he sighed. "I suppose we're to watch over him. Guardian angels - er, supernatural entities, or something to that effect." 

"Wonderful." Crowley grunted. "I'm supposed to follow him to wherever this school is, I know that much." 

"As am I." Aziraphale drank quietly for a moment. He opened _Hogwarts: A History_ again and paged through it. "This looks promising at least," he said, after reading a few paragraphs here and there. "It'll help us know where to start." 

Crowley drained his glass. "Where do we start?" he asked. 

Aziraphale looked dubious. He flipped to the front of the book and peered at the first few pages. 

After a moment, he scratched his head and looked thoughtfully at Crowley. 

"I'm not sure I know where this is," he said, "but have you ever heard of _anyplace_ in London called 'Diagon Alley'?" 

Crowley closed his eyes, and the waitress returned at once, with another bottle of wine. 


	6. The Leaky Cauldron

_5. The Leaky Cauldron._

"We've been up this road _four times_ now," said Aziraphale, in an exasperated tone. "These directions are _completely_ unhelpful."

"Let me see," said Crowley, pulling the book out of Aziraphale's hands. He studied the page closely, then looked up and surveyed the neighrbourhood they were in."This is the right street," he said. "We're supposed to be looking for a pub, called the Leaky Cauldron." 

The angel sniffed. "I _am_ looking," he said. "I don't see it." 

They crossed the road. "Maybe we passed by on the other side," said Crowley, wretchedly. "Or maybe this is all a bunch of hokum, and your theory is-" 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale grabbed his arm. "Look!" 

He pointed to the run-down facade of what seemed to be an abandoned building. The windows were fogged over with years of dust and London grime, and the paint on the trim had nearly completely chipped away. It looked condemned. 

And it had begun to _change_. 

It still looked abandoned in the end, but where the sign had just been black it now said _The Leaky Cauldron_. The words bled into the wood liquidly, and the faintest hint of warm firelight could just be seen behind the filthy windows. 

"That, er." Crowley flipped through the book frantically. "Right. _Non-magic folk – um, Muggles - cannot see the Leaky Cauldron_." He looked at Aziraphale. "We're not magic, though." 

"In Adam's mind we are," said Aziraphale. 

"He's the _Antichrist_, angel-" 

"And he's an eleven-year-old boy," said Aziraphale, "with next to no comprehension of what _he_ is or what _we_ are." 

Crowley nodded. "So, we _would_ seem like magical creatures to him." He stared up at the pub. "I suppose we go in, then." 

Aziraphale took the book from Crowley and pocketed it. "After you, dear." 

"Right," said Crowley, and he stepped up to the door and pushed it open. 

All conversation stopped. 

But that was the norm inside the Leaky Cauldron, where strangers were met with shifty glances and whispers that lasted a few moments before talk resumed again, the patrons having lost interest. 

Crowley hesitated. He stepped aside to allow Aziraphale to come in and shut the door behind them. They looked around in slack-jawed amazement. 

"Cor," said Aziraphale, under his breath. "It's like... like..." 

Crowley sighed. 

"Like the bloody 14th century all over again," he finished. 

Crowley _hated_ the 14th century. 


	7. A Short But Memorable Cameo

__

6. A Short But Memorable Cameo.

"Harry! Oh, Harry!"

Harry Potter half-turned from the display window of the Quidditch shop to see where the voice had come from. A girl with bushy brown hair, pushing her way through the crowded streets, smiled and waved at him. 

"Hi, Harry!" she said when she finally reached him. 

Harry grinned. "Hey, Hermione," he said. "When'd you get here?" 

She pushed her hair out of her face. "Only just. My mum and dad let me off at the 'Cauldron. Ron's also around here somewhere with his family, but I've not found them, yet." She paused to catch her breath. "How are you?" 

"Fine," shrugged Harry. "Had a decent enough summer, for once. The Dursleys went on holiday to Majorca and left me with Mrs. Figg." Normally, Harry wasn't fond of the old woman and her menagerie of cats, but as he'd gotten older she seemed to behave a lot nicer toward him. "Spent most of the summer sacked out in the garden reading my school books." 

"Oh, _wonderful_," exclaimed Hermione, and Harry had to try very hard not to laugh. He'd expected her to say something like that about him studying through the hols. "Then you'll be prepared for our O.W.L.S. this year, I expect." 

"Ready as I'll ever be," said Harry. "I- hang on, look there." 

He pointed, and Hermione turned. "What?" 

"Those two," said Harry. "Just there. Those two men." 

Hermione frowned. Two men had just stumbled into Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron, looking rather dazed and decidedly out-of-place. Harry would have thought them Muggles if it weren't for the fact that non-magic folk couldn't even _see_ the Leaky Cauldron, let alone get inside. 

They had to be wizards of some sort. Except... 

"I've never seen wizards like _them_, before," said Hermione. 

"Neither have I," said Harry. He watched with narrowed eyes as the two men – one rather tall, dressed rather well in a camel-hair coat, and the other leaner and clad in black – picked their way up the street, looking around as if they'd never been there before. The one in black looked particularly put out. 

Harry snickered. "They look like I did," he said, "when Hagrid first brought me here. All confused and frightened." 

"Probably just foreigners," said Hermione, dismissively. "Americans, perhaps." 

"I don't know." Harry frowned. "That squashy one looks pretty English to me. And a bit-" 

"Harry!" Red hair and freckles appeared beside them. Ron grinned and draped his arms around Hermione and Harry's shoulders. "When did you two get here?" 

The two strange men were instantly forgotten as the reunion moved down the road to the ice-cream shop. Which was unfortunate, because if they'd waited a few more minutes, they would have heard the thin, dark one curse rather loudly as he found himself face-to-face with a very large and angry-looking owl. 


	8. Those Two Men

_7. Those Two Men._

Aziraphale pulled them both into the nearest shop when all the squalling had begun to attract too much attention. 

"Bloody psychotic chicken!" cried Crowley. "I should have roasted him right where he perched." 

Aziraphale brushed the last few feathers from Crowley's hair. "That would have - how did you say it - gone down like a red balloon-" 

"_Lead_ balloon, angel." 

"Whatever. We're supposed to be _blending in_, my dear, and setting owls on fire isn't the sort of _subterfuge_ I had in mind." 

Crowley glared. "What exactly do you have in mind, then?" 

Several moments later they left the shop resplendent in robes of blue and black. Crowley tugged at his, and tripped over the bottom, and complained loudly that his robe was in fact really quite itchy. 

"I didn't suffer the whole of the Dark Ages just to have it happen all over again," he whinged as they made their way down the street. Aziraphale peered into the shops, and would pause to consult the book before shaking his head and moving on. He tsked at Crowley without looking at him. 

"Come on now," he scolded. "Buck up. Just... pretend it's 1666. Remember? You rather liked that year if I recall." 

"Well, yes," said Crowley. "Plague year. Bloody good fun, that was." 

"If a bit messy," added Aziraphale. 

They walked the length of Diagon Alley, Aziraphale reading from his book and pointing things out to the very cranky demon trailing behind him. He didn't know what bothered him more, that they were stuck babysitting the spawn of Satan in an imagined world, or the fact that Aziraphale seemed to be _enjoying himself_. He was adapting rather quickly to his surroundings, his archaic mindset tickled pink to see people scratching with quills onto parchment, and messenger-owls and cauldrons. 

Crowley hadn't seen him so happy in centuries, and it infuriated him somehow. 

"Angel," he said, jogging a bit to keep up, "what are we doing here?" 

Aziraphale held the book out to him, open to the back pages. "Look here. This book is enchanted. The pages actually _rewrite_ themselves as time goes on." 

"That's handy," said Crowley, approvingly. "I can think of another Book that could stand to do that once in a while." 

"Shush. Anyway, it looks like there are positions open at Hogwarts, so I thought that we could, you know..." 

A grin slithered onto Crowley's face. "Are you suggesting we _lie_, Aziraphale?" he asked. Now this was more _like_ it. 

"_Heavens_ no." Aziraphale blanched. "Er, well, not _lie_ per se, but... what was it Chaucer once said? 'Give the truth scope'?" 

"It's lying, angel. Neither of us are- What are the positions, anyway?" 

Aziraphale looked almost smug. "A professor of Dark Arts, and a librarian." 

"Urk." 

"All we need to do is send off an owl to Professor Dumbledore-" 

Crowley's head was spinning. "_Who_?" 

Aziraphale shot him a withering look. 

"_Dumbledore_," he said. "He's the headmaster of Hogwarts. Big gray beard, pointy hats, the whole wizard business. A veritable Gandalf, if you will." 

"Right, right," said Crowley, waving an impatient hand. "So we send _owls_ to this man? We haven't got any owls, have we?" 

Aziraphale pointed at something behind them, and Crowley was almost afraid to look. He turned, and groaned. 

"That's easily fixed," said Aziraphale with a smile, and he took Crowley's arm and led him into Eeylops Owl Emporium. 


	9. Owls

_8. Owls._

The shop was dimly lit and smelled very strongly of birds, and as they walked past the myriad of cages they were watched by glittering pairs of eyes, twisting round to follow them as they went by. The only sounds were quiet hootings, and the odd squeak and shriek. 

Crowley sneezed. 

"Ble-" 

"Don't even _think_ about it." 

They browsed the shop, peeking at snowy owls and barn owls and eagle owls. Aziraphale became quite fond of a tiny little elf owl, but halfway through the bonding process he was startled by a horrible, sort of squelchy noise behind him. 

Rushing over, he found a cage containing a dead owl, and beside it was a very guilty-looking Crowley. 

"What did you _do_?" he demanded. The demon looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Aziraphale decided that if he scuffed his shoe and said, 'Gosh, mister,' he was going to have to do something very drastic. 

"It BIT me," sputtered Crowley, "And may have- I sort of glared at it..." He poked a finger into the cage and prodded the lump of lifeless feathers. "Suppose I put a bit too much into it." 

Aziraphale muttered something unkind - but not obscene - under his breath. He opened the cage and lay a hand over the owl. A moment later, and the bird scrambled to its feet and hopped back up onto its perch, looking decided ruffled at having been dead, but no worse for it. Aziraphale closed the cage. 

"Come with me," he said to Crowley, "and _don't_ touch anything, again." 

They made their way toward the middle of the shop, the owls around them silent and watchful, as if they were well aware of what had happened to their comrade and weren't interested in any repeat performances. Crowley kept close to the angel, and his hands in his pockets. 

He waited quietly while Aziraphale made arrangements to buy the little elf owl he'd admired, and he produced a handful of wizard gold - 'Galleons' - that had somehow turned up in Aziraphale's robe pockets. Crowley lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. 

"Also," whispered Aziraphale to the shopkeeper, when he was certain Crowley couldn't hear, "have you got any, er, different owls?" 

The man looked at him, oddly. "What do you mean?" 

"Er." Aziraphale shot a look at Crowley, who was quietly tormenting a rather lovely barn owl. "Sort of... bad-tempered ones?" 

The shopkeeper frowned. "We've just got the one," he said, and he led them to the rear of the shop, where there was a large cage containing a smallish but very imposing black owl, with red eyes. "This one's a nasty bugger. Sooty owl. Don't know how many fingers have been lost to him. Name's Vlad." 

Crowley's eyes brightened - a soft yellow glow in the Emporium's faint light - behind his sunglasses. 

"Vlad?" he asked."As in the Impaler?" 

"The same." 

Crowley grinned. 

"We'll take him." 

And Vlad the owl opened his beak and screamed. 


	10. Demons Never Ask Directions

  
i9. Demons Never Ask Directions./i  
  
  
"Turn left."  
  
"It says right."  
  
"That goes into a lake, dear. You'll want to turn left."  
  
"Why would it say right if it goes into a lake?"  
  
"I think perhaps this map is older than the lake. Best turn left."  
  
"Oh, bugger this."  
  
The Bentley rolled to a bumpy halt in the middle of a squelchy field, and Crowley yanked the map out of Aziraphale's hands.  
  
"That wasn't very nice."  
  
Crowley ignored him.  
  
"Look at this," he cried. "How're you supposed to be able to read that writing?"  
  
He jabbed the map with his finger, pointing at the spindly letters sprawled across the parchment. He could tell London by the odegra – and was mildly amused by magical folk picking up on that – and he gathered that the large drawing of a castle was the infernal school itself, but everything in between was a complete mess of nonsensical words and ink blotches.  
  
Aziraphale calmly plucked the map away from Crowley. He peered at it thoughtfully, over the top of his professorly spectacles. They were a recent acquisition in Aziraphale's effort to look more authorative and scholarly, and less like an eccentric old uncle.  
  
"You know you don't need those things," said Crowley, thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. "And they look rather silly."  
  
Aziraphale frowned and adjusted his glasses. "I think they look dignified," he said, rather stiffly. "It's all part of the disguise, you see."  
  
Crowley laughed, a short bark of mirth.  
  
"Disguise? You? You're posing as a librarian, angel. That's not too far off the mark."  
  
"I'm not just a librarian." Aziraphale turned the map upside down and squinted at it, as if perhaps now it would suddenly translate itself that way. "In his letter Dumbledore addressed me as a professor, too."  
  
"Only because you signed your inquiry with it, Professor Fale." Crowley snorted. "If you were referring to the afternoon you spent getting blotto with Socrates-"  
  
"It was very educational!" croaked Aziraphale. "Besides, you're no more qualified to be a teacher than I am, Professor Crowley."  
  
"Actually," said Crowley, "I've a degree. In law." At the angel's sceptical frown he added, "Standard issue, Below. Everyone down there's got one."  
  
"Ah."  
  
Aziraphale studied the map again.  
  
"I think we're lost."  
  
The Bentley's engine roared. Or maybe it was Crowley. Aziraphale couldn't really tell.  
  
They drove on in relative silence for a bit, rumbling over a bumpy sheep's path that gave way to a sludgey ribbon of mud that had, at some point in history, been a road. Crowley could feel the dirt clinging to the Bentley's normally spotless tyres.   
  
This would not do. This was an outrage. His baby was getting positively filthy. Crowley hadn't even seen the bloody school yet, but already he-   
  
"Oooooh!" said Aziraphale, suddenly, and he grabbed Crowley's arm and pointed. "Look at that."  
  
Crowley looked, and a single word popped unbidden into his head.  
  
Wow.  
  
They had gone around the lake, even though it was a very big lake, and had come upon the backside of an enormous mountain. At the crest of the mountain loomed a castle, the likes of which Aziraphale had not seen in centuries. He missed the craftsmanship of a good castle – sturdy, reliable, if a bit drafty.  
  
Crowley, however, his initial awe having faded, was more concerned about having to drive the Bentley "up the side of a bloody mountain."  
  
"Hm," said Aziraphale unhelpfully. "Perhaps we should just, ah, leave it down here and…"  
  
"Are you suggesting we abandon my car?" Crowley was appalled. It had taken the angel nearly a decade to convince Crowley that he could park the Bentley on the street in front of Aziraphale's shop, and that he really didn't need to replace the shop next door with a private garage because honestly, if he didn't want anyone to harm the car, then all he really needed to do was believe that no one would, and isn't that how he'd managed to keep it in mint condition for half a century anyway?  
  
"Beside the point," said Crowley impatiently, when Aziraphale started to bring it up again. "I am not leaving it here."  
  
Aziraphale frowned.   
  
"Then how do you- oh," he said, as Crowley slowly smiled at him, and then they were on top of the mountain, coasting smoothly down a slight incline of grass with the castle straight ahead. Aziraphale calmly adjusted his fez, which had replaced his usual bowler hat when it became apparent that wizards had even more atrocious fashion sense than Aziraphale normally did, and tried his best to look disapproving.  
  
"Well, that's one way, I suppose."  
  
Crowley chuckled and said nothing as he manoeuvred the Bentley onto a cobblestone road, and the gates of Hogwarts came into view. They were closed.  
  
"Er," said Aziraphale, shuffling through the parchment in his hands. "There ought to be something in here about how to open them."  
  
"I'll open them," began Crowley, but before he could muster up a good glare Aziraphale poked him, and wagged a finger at him. Crowley stared at him.  
  
"Enough of that," said the angel. "We're in their world now, so we need to obey a few of their rules."  
  
"Did you just shake your finger at me?"  
  
"Never mind that. Here, take some of these scrolls and see if you can find instructions for the gates."  
  
"I can't believe you shook your finger at me."  
  
"Crowley, my dear," said Aziraphale, "do shut up."  
  
They scoured the scrolls, but nothing in them said anything about opening the gates. "Dumbledore must have forgotten we were coming," said Aziraphale, taking off the fez and scratching his head. "Of course, he may have thought we were coming by more… traditional means of transport."  
  
Crowley looked at him. "What's more traditional than a Bentley?"  
  
"For them I mean. You know. Broomsticks, the like."  
  
"Broomsticks."  
  
"Yes. They fly on broomsticks in this world." He frowned. "You didn't read Hogwarts, A History, then."  
  
"I try not to read, angel," said Crowley grumpily. "Taxes the brain. Distracts one from tempting. You know."  
  
"Right," said Aziraphale, who had been to Crowley's flat and had seen the well-worn books lining the demon's shelves. They were mostly ever book ever banned from the world's libraries, but Aziraphale was certain he'd seen The Chronicles of Narnia in there. Crowley had a soft spot for allegorical children's literature, though he'd never admit it.  
  
Well, he did once, but get enough Shoggoth's Old Peculiar into Crowley and he would admit to anything – it was how Aziraphale found out exactly who had been responsible for Milton Keynes, and he'd been right.  
  
"Well," said Aziraphale, crossing his arms and looking a bit ill. "Go ahead, then."  
  
Crowley blinked. The gates swung open. He grinned.  
  
"Last time," he said. "Promise."  
  
"Mm," said Aziraphale, who knew exactly how much a demon's promise was worth.  
  
The Bentley started forward, and Professors Crowley and Fale arrived at Hogwarts. 

  



	11. It Thinks Its People

10. It Thinks Its People.  
  
  
Halfway down the long, sloping drive that led to the castle, the Bentley's engine died.  
  
"The hell," said Crowley. They rolled to a stop and Crowley stared in disbelief at the steering wheel. "Sseventy yearss, and not onccce hass thiss happened," he hissed, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses.  
  
Aziraphale twitched. Crowley's lisp only made itself known when the demon was particularly put out. He reached over and pat Crowley's leg in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.  
  
"Calm down," he said, softly. "It's not the car."  
  
"What?"  
  
Aziraphale pulled out Hogwarts, a History. "It says in here that nothing electric or even mechanical can work while around Hogwarts. It's a bit like if you tried to use your little hand-telephone device near a power plant, I expect. You'd get nothing but mad static or it wouldn't even work at all."  
  
Crowley's face fell. "My car is useless here? Blast it!" he shouted, and then he did a very stupid thing.  
  
He thumped the wheel, once, with his fist.  
  
The Bentley gave an almighty roar and jerked forward, speeding toward the castle. Aziraphale gave a shout and grabbed for his fez before it flew off his head. Crowley gripped the wheel and pounded the brake. The car kept going.  
  
"Fuck!" he shouted, and Aziraphale didn't even bother to grimace as he was trying very hard to stay in his seat. "What in blazes-"  
  
"The car!" cried Aziraphale. "It's gone mad!"  
  
Crowley tried to steer the car back onto the drive, but the Bentley seemed to have other ideas. It veered sharply to the left and careened through a narrow corridor that would certainly have been too small had Crowley done some quick thinking. They sped through the courtyard, pulled a loop-de-loop around the fountain in the centre, and then continued on at a tremendous rate to the opposite side and another impossibly small stone hallway.   
  
"Where is it going?" Crowley tried the brake again, stomping on it so hard that he had to concentrate on his foot not bursting clear through the bottom of the car, but it was as if there was no brake. The Bentley seemed to go even faster.  
  
Crowley gulped. If he didn't know better, he would have thought his beloved automobile was ignoring him.  
  
They barrelled out of the castle, careening across a grassy field edged by what looked like a deep, black forest.   
  
"Stop!" Aziraphale shouted, hanging on Crowley's sleeve. "Stop the car!"  
  
"I'm trying!" Crowley had given up on the brake and was now concentrating on the car itself. He muttered under his breath in a myriad of languages, tried to invoke whatever entity he could think of that could stop a runaway Bentley. Nothing worked. The forest grew closer, and Crowley thought he could see eyes glittering in between the trees.  
  
Despite being evil incarnate and more dangerous than even the most terrible monster mythology had to offer, Crowley decided that he did not want to know what those eyes belonged to.  
  
"Aziraphale!" he shouted. "Do something!"  
  
"What can I do?" snapped the angel, gripping Crowley's arm so tightly he could feel Aziraphale's fingernails digging into his flesh through his jacket. "It's not my car!"  
  
Crowley elbowed him. "Do something angelic, you idiot! Maybe it will listen to you!"  
  
Aziraphale hesitated, then put out a hand and touched the Bentley's dashboard. "Er, nice car," he said, feeling rather foolish. He made a gentle, stroking motion. "Good car."  
  
The Bentley shuddered. Crowley couldn't believe it. "Keep it up!"  
  
"There's a dear," continued Aziraphale, utterly befuddled. "Slow down now, it's all right."  
  
With another shudder the car slowed, and the engine ceased to snarl. As Aziraphale crooned the Bentley crept to a silent stop just shy of the edge of the forest, and Crowley's eyes nearly fell out of his head when the car emitted what could only be described as a purr.  
  
Aziraphale looked at Crowley. "I'll be damned," he said, eyes round.   
  
"You should be so lucky," muttered Crowley. He pried his hands from the steering wheel and rubbed them, wincing. "What the hell happened?"  
  
Aziraphale leaned forward and lowered his voice, speaking conspiratorially into Crowley's ear. "Your car thinks its people," he said, and the engine made a sudden sound that neither of them could mistake for anything but what it was. They flew out of the car, grabbing their things and sprinting toward the castle.  
  
When they were gone the Bentley rolled off into the forest, still laughing.  
  



	12. Crowley's Day Keeps Getting Better

12. Crowley's Day Keeps Getting Better.  
  
  
They reached the castle and its enormous oak doors, which Crowley pushed open like a man on a mission. The foyer was empty when they stepped inside, but Aziraphale could hear voices coming from somewhere.  
  
Crowley sniffed the air. "I smell food," he said. "Someone's here, anyway."  
  
"There," said Aziraphale, pointing to a door that was slightly ajar. He quickly dropped his bags and Eldritch's cage and hurried to it, peering through the crack. "Oh."  
  
"What is it?" said Crowley, coming up behind him and trying to see around Aziraphale's fez.  
  
"A feast," said Aziraphale. "Looks like the students beat us here. Look at them all!"  
  
With an impatient grunt Crowley pushed him out of the way and peeked through the door. The room beyond it was absolutely gigantic and brightly lit by thousands of candles floating in midair. Torches aligned the walls, and multicoloured banners bearing pictures of lions and badgers, snakes and ravens. Several very long tables stretched the length of the hall, filled with children chattering merrily amongst themselves.  
  
Crowley's eyes narrowed. He did not mind children individually, but after the incident with the Boy Who Was Not the Antichrist's birthday party, he was not fond of them in groups. His heart - or what amounted to a heart - sank at the thought of spending Go- Lo- who knows how long having to deal with rooms full of the little bastards every day.  
  
He had better be able to get alcohol in this world, or someone was going to pay.  
  
Something scraped against his jacket. Aziraphale was pawing at him and looking positively giddy. "Aren't they precious?" he breathed, eyes shining. Crowley looked at him and opened his mouth to say something extremely rude, when the door burst open and struck him right in the eye.  
  
Crowley toppled over onto the floor in a cursing heap.  
  
"Ah!" A thin, extreme-looking woman looked down at him with an expression of bewilderment. "I apologise, I didn't see you there, er…"  
  
"Professor Fale, madam," said Aziraphale, doffing his fez. "This is my associate, Professor, er, Crowley. Here, let me..."  
  
He hauled Crowley to his feet and made a show of dusting him off while surreptiously rearranging his clothes to better resemble wizard's robes. He hadn't been able to convince Crowley to put them on before they'd left London, and the woman had been eyeing him as if she'd never seen anything like him before. She would not notice, however, that his clothes had been altered; Aziraphale smiled at her, and her expression softened.  
  
"Charmed," said Crowley, rubbing his eye with one hand and extending the other.  
  
"Minerva McGonagall." She grasped his hand, and Crowley smirked when she retracted it quickly. No one held hands with a demon for very long. Except for Aziraphale, but he was sentimental like that.   
  
McGonagall spoke. "I'm terribly sorry, Professor," she said, earnestly. "I was coming to see if you'd arrived and- you should have come right in."  
  
"We didn't want to interrupt," said Aziraphale. "We've only just arrived. Had a bit of car trouble, you see, and-"  
  
"Car trouble?" McGonagall frowned. "You drove?"  
  
"Er," said Aziraphale, but Crowley cut him off before he could attempt an explanation. They didn't have all night.  
  
"It's quaint," he said, lowering his hand and resting it lightly on McGonagall's shoulder. He wouldn't have a black eye if he could help it. "Old Az, here, he's quite attached to those strange Muggle methods of doing things, getting around. You know. I thought I'd humour him."  
  
Aziraphale poked him. Crowley smiled. McGonagall flushed, slightly.  
  
"How nice," she said. "Well, then. Let's get you inside, shall we? The Sorting is about to begin."  
  
She turned to lead them into the hall. Crowley stole a glance at Aziraphale.  
  
Sorting? he mouthed.  
  
You'll see, Aziraphale mouthed back.  
  
The chatter fell to silence as soon as McGonagall appeared with the two strange men in tow. They followed her up to the high table, and she indicated two empty seats at one end. Aziraphale took the one on the end, and Crowley found himself seated between the angel and a surly-looking, black-clad man who regarded Crowley with thinly veiled loathing.  
  
"Sunglasses," the man hissed as soon as Crowley sat down, "are not allowed at this school."  
  
"Aren't they?" replied Crowley. "How unfortunate for everyone else."  
  
The man sneered, but could not reply. The Sorting had begun.  
  
"When I call your names," said McGonagall, addressing a cadre of nervous-looking children standing before her, "you will come up here and take a seat. I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and it will tell you to what House you belong."  
  
Crowley leaned sideways toward Aziraphale. "House."  
  
"Four of them," said Aziraphale. He had that infernal book open in his lap, out of sight of everyone but Crowley. "Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Not that much different from your basic English school, really, except that they're a bit … specific about what sorts of people belong in every house."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Aziraphale nodded, and explained each of the Houses in a low voice as McGonagall called 'Atkins, Florence," to the stool. A tiny girl in plaits stumbled forth, and nearly disappeared from view as the Hat was dropped on her head.  
  
Everyone waited. The girl held perfect still as the Hat muttered to itself.  
  
Then, "HUFFLEPUFF!"  
  
One of the tables exploded in cheers, and the little girl hopped down, handed the hat back to McGonagall, and scurried off toward that table. Crowley noted how the other children greeted her warmly, though they'd never met her before. He smirked, as he always did when he saw the potential for something to be exploited for his own amusement (and Brownie points down Below).  
  
By the time "Williams, Xavier," was sorted into Ravenclaw Crowley was bored. He'd taken to glaring at random students, planting a few impure thoughts amongst the older ones and inspiring mischief in the younger. He could feel Aziraphale scowling at him, but he had no doubt that the angel was amusing himself in his own way. He'd seen the redheaded boy pick up the quill dropped by the bushy-haired girl next to him, handing it to her with a positively soppy smile.  
  
"Really, my dear," said Aziraphale, when a blond boy tipped a flagon of orange-coloured juice down the back of another boy's robes. He caught the eye of the sinister-looking fellow sitting on Crowley's other side. "You're being watched, you know."  
  
"I know," said Crowley. "The vampire behind me, right?"  
  
"He's staring at your sunglasses."  
  
Crowley grunted, and furrowed his brow, and his sunglasses became delicate, wire-rim spectacles. Aziraphale blinked in surprise when Crowley looked up and smiled at him.  
  
"But, your eyes-"  
  
"Look normal to them, angel." Crowley gestured toward the rest of the hall. "So long as I've got the glasses on. Doesn't work on you, though." He grinned. "You know what to expect when you look at me. The meat-puppets don't."  
  
Aziraphale made a face. "You know I dislike that euphemism."  
  
"I know," leered Crowley.  
  
The Sorting continued, with "Woburn, Hyacinth," and "Wulf, Daegaer," both of whom were sorted into Gryffindor. That table, Crowley observed, made the most noise whenever anyone was Sorted into it. He could feel the pride radiating off of them in waves, and it was so overwhelming that Crowley nearly giggled aloud. So much potential in one room; he felt like a kid shoplifting in a candy store.  
  
"Young, Adam."  
  
Aziraphale and Crowley sat bolt upright.  
  
"This should be interesting." Aziraphale smiled. "If I were a betting man I would say Slytherin."  
  
Crowley shook his head. "Too obvious," he said. "You watch, the little bugger's going to end up in Gryffindor."  
  
Adam – the last child standing – approached the stool with the same confidence he did everything in life. You didn't grow up the leader of the Them only to be afraid of a hat. He sat purposefully on the stool and, when McGonagall put the hat on his head he reached up and tugged it down a bit, to make sure that it fit. Some of the students laughed.  
  
Crowley leaned forward, as if he could read the lips that the Hat did not have.  
  
And the Son of Satan became a Hufflepuff.  
  
  



	13. Like Switzerland, Really

13. Like Switzerland, Really.  
  
  
"It's humiliating," moaned Crowley, so that the malevolent bat beside him couldn't hear. "He's the bloody Antichrist."  
  
Aziraphale nodded, and pat Crowley on the back reassuringly. "I'm sorry," he said. "It makes sense, though. He's ambivalent about taking sides."  
  
"Fine," growled the demon, "but couldn't he be just as neutral in Ravenclaw?"  
  
Before Aziraphale could answer, McGonagall tapped her glass goblet with her spoon and called for attention, and the man beside her slowly rose from his seat.  
  
Albus Dumbledore, Aziraphale decided, looked as old as the angel occasionally felt. Perhaps even older.  
  
Yet despite his appearance – rich robes of maroon brocade and a long white beard that stretched so long that the end of it vanished behind the table – he held himself with more grace and dignity than Aziraphale had seen in a mortal since the days of that nice fellow with the ark.  
  
Dumbledore held up his hands, and the hall fell into an instant silence.  
  
"I want to welcome you all to another year here at Hogwarts," he said, in a raspy but soothing voice. "I have a few announcements to make before we begin the feast."  
  
"First," he said, "I would like to introduce to you two new members of the staff. As some of you may know, Madame Irma Pince, our esteemed librarian, has left to pursue her dream of writing spellbooks. I'm sure we all wish her the best of luck with her endeavours. Please welcome your new librarian, Professor Azir A. Phale."  
  
There was a brief spate of polite applause as Aziraphale stood and bowed, slightly, to the congregation. He sat down and grinned at Crowley, who rolled his eyes.  
  
"We also have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," continued Dumbledore, and the students buzzed nervously among themselves. Several of them craned their necks over one another to catch a glimpse of the dark, slouching figure seated beside the new librarian. "Professor Anthony Crowley has been so kind as to accept the position. Please do your best to give him a proper Hogwarts welcome."  
  
Crowley rose, and smirked.  
  
The Hall burst into applause, though some of the students looked a bit confused as to why they were clapping so hard. Some of them looked at their hands as if they weren't certain they were even attached to their bodies, anymore.  
  
Aziraphale made a derisive snort as Crowley sat back down.  
  
"Show-off," he muttered. Crowley grinned at him.  
  
"Finally, I hope that you will enjoy your time here at Hogwarts. It is certain that enjoyment will be short in supply, in the coming months and years, so I urge all of you to do your best to live in the moment, and take each day as it comes."  
  
Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged looks. The angel looked questioning. The demon shrugged. The students looked nonplussed by Dumbledore's words, as if they were something they'd come to be accustomed to. Crowley frowned.  
  
"Now then," said Dumbledore, with a benevolent smile. "Let the feast begin!"  
  
The tables exploded with food, and as Crowley helped himself to a plate of chicken legs he tried to ignore an anxious little voice in the back of his mind (that sounded remarkably like Aziraphale, he noted) that wondered if perhaps there was something that they hadn't been told.  
  
It wouldn't be the first time.  
  
--  
  



End file.
